26 March 2009

Yesterday was a very bad day. After receiving mind-reeling news from the babysitter, it rained on the drive home.It HAILED.

I was caught in it. In fact, it started when I was driving; all of a sudden, there were truckloads of golf and tennis balls falling out of the sky. People dove off the road any way they could, desperately trying to seek shelter for their poor exposed cars. People argued over spots under a gas station overhang, and drove into private lawns to get under trees. I ducked under a tree but it did little good.

The car has dents. Lots of them. Lots and lots of them. My husband's boss has a broken windshield. Everyone in this area has screwed up cars.

Have you ever been inside a car in a hailstorm? It was what I can imagine being under a dozen baseball bats in a metal barrel sounds like. The baby was in her carseat, and I'm surprised she didn't panic when we were assaulted from the sky. It was weird guys. Really, really weird.

To top that mess off, my ex is back to 'suspending my visitation rights' with my other daughter because of some trolling he apparently did on the net. He won't admit what he found, and I'm not sure what he found, because there was nothing like that for him to find. He claims I issued threats against his life on the internet.

Hey guys, if you find any threats against him, let me know.

I haven't seen her since before Christmas. She's turning nine next week.

24 March 2009

Lately, my mind has been abuzz with new story leads/ideas, and I’m just not in a social mood to share and be judged. I don’t want to be judged this week, okay?

I went on Twitter blackout for the same reason. There’s no way my boiling brain can handle following what 172 people are doing every thirty-five-and-a-half minutes. Half the time, there’s really not so much of a smirk. Life bleeds. It laughs. It dies.

Each night, I shut off the Geemail, the Twitter, the Yahooey Messenger and the Firey-Fox gateway and plug in to my iPod. Me and Marilyn Manson, or the sexy growl of Concrete Blonde, and my fingers just start making up stuff of their own accord.

I haven’t been contributing to my story blogs. I’m sorry. Keep me in your list, and you’ll know as soon as I post new installments of the parallel adventures. Yes, they are relevant, just different points in time. One day you’ll raise your eyebrows and go “Aha.”

You will.

I’ve written a little bit of the story, the core story that has been burning my brain cells since 2001. It’s terrifying as hell, because I don’t want to screw it up, you know? I still have that dream-delivered idea of the hell-pit, but I have no idea how to present that one. I need to learn how to write scripts, it’d be a terrific movie.

Tool inspires, did you know that? It’s my safety. Putting that music on nearly guarantees that I’ll at least get a blip on the imagination radar.

You know, I don’t know if I want to be published anymore. Sounds silly, so I’ll not elaborate. Call me disillusioned with the entire scene.

I did find something surprisingly enjoyable: helping other writers and writing silly short stories for little magazines. I like quirky, unique, and yes, even grotesque, if you will. I also seem to love commas, judging from the previous sentence. Never said I was perfect.

I did beta reads for two people, both times being that voice in the back of your head personified. I don't do ass-patting, and please shoot me if I do.

I’ve met artists that can’t draw hands. Hands are everywhere, in fact most of us alive are equipped with two very convenient models. So what do the artists do about this?

They learn to draw hands or more common, hide them in every single bloody picture they draw or paint. Who besides Mr. Belvedere and M stands with their hands tucked behind their back?

Same thing goes for writing. It might be the lack of an active voice, or action to detail. Perhaps dialogue is not your strength. Or maybe it’s overpowering, drawn out, and painfully dull.

These things are all current happenings in our world. One thing I've learned from Twitter is that we are brethren, whether or not our fangs are bloodied with native sanguine. There's times that I'm sent by a link to read other people's work, and I cringe. Do I compliment? Rarely. Would I tell the truth?

If asked.

I think as writers, we should all be listening for that silence. My work showed me an unusual film a few years ago about the 'Silent Dissatisfied Customer.' It was valuable, because it's true. Only 13% of dissatisfied customers ever complain, and even then, you have to poke and probe to get why.

Is there silence in your stadium? Awkward comments? “It was long.” “Wow.” “It was good.”

What exactly does all of this mean?

For many ordinary readers, not much. They don't have the linguistic skill that we have as natural-born writers. It is for this reason that if we do give passing thought, we give it some thought. This is more of a memo to me rather then you all.

07 March 2009

Pale Rider and Allude to Grandeur will be continuing, I just suffered a small bout of writer's block when trying to stretch my resources too thin. I'm scheduling around that at this time, so I have enough of the boys for everyone.

I thank everyone for reading, it means a lot that you enjoy it. I want you to enjoy it.

All of sudden, I found myself in love with the world...

Eh, Whatever.

Carrie Clevenger enjoys
documentaries, non-fiction, Blue Moon, music, and coffee. Sometimes she
writes poetry and short stories that have bad endings. She's the elusive
sort and has a horrid fear of meeting people, but socialization isn't
exactly how good books are written. Carrie is the author of the Crooked
Fang series and has many more awful things planned.